Embassy Kings

Chelsea boots, leather jackets, spot-and-stubble faces,

wallets full of crumpled fivers, won at Hexham races.

The smoke blurs their too-dark eyes,

their lips will part in easy lies.

Hanging from the waltzer’s bar,

we raven on their words,

we’ll get into their rusting car

and let them call us birds.

Mini-skirts, crochet handbags, concealer-covered faces,

Purses full of secret things, meant for secret places.

The shine is in their too-kohled eyes,

they’ll listen to our lies.

For we are raggle-taggle boys,

and they are of the town,

seduced by all the fairground noise,

and fags at half-a-crown.

(Read by an extremely bad voice artist  here)